It gets a little difficult to talk freely
when you’re always trimming the sense, the fence,
the shrubbery
and make it just too impossibly leafy
and garden-Edenically
green.
I can’t see for all the chlorophyll,
the tumbling will that runs circles around
you and I, on an empty fill
of plot and grass.
The verge, the edge
always come last, a fastening away of what will
one day consume me,
in stench, in smell, of a sense that what is instilled
will one day only bloom into weeds.
I am scared for all that makes me thrilled
to speak, because in the end, I have no idea what that makes me:
something a little too free
to sag and spill
all of my fruiting insides
onto the dreaming earth:
not every garden, most unfortunately,
is a place of ravenous, unstoppable birth.